


Astrapophobia

by RaceyBoi



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-15 01:26:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14148927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaceyBoi/pseuds/RaceyBoi
Summary: An old hurt/comfort fic where Race comforts Spot after finding him having a panic attack triggered by a storm.





	Astrapophobia

**Author's Note:**

> TW- Panic attack and implied child abuse

Race ran into his apartment complex as a flash of light flickered across the sky, followed by a delayed rumble. He sighed as he tried to find a dry spot on his shirt to clean his glasses. An uneasiness crept into his spine after he swung the door open to his apartment expecting to see the familiar Friday-night-sight of his boyfriend waiting on the couch with popcorn, but was only met with darkness.

He flicked on the lights, “Spot?”

The only reply was another bang of thunder.

Race checked the rest of the apartment and although the tv in their bedroom was on every room was empty. He turned it off and plugged his dead phone into the charger, guessing Spot must have ran to the store for their movie-night snacks. Grabbing the notepad on his nightstand, he reminded himself to buy more contacts before peeling off his shirt and throwing it into the laundry pile.

A few minutes later, Race’s phone turned on with a bright white screen and a loud buzz. He plopped onto the bed as another bang rattled the sky. Quickly after, he received three missed calls and ten texts from Spot, eight of them frantically demanded him to come home before it starts to storm. The last two sent panic up his spine. He felt his throat get a little tighter as he read them, picturing Spot as he typed them out.

"Race goddamnit I need you! I thought I was over this but I can't fucking breathe and if you don't come home right now then I'm breaking up with you I swear"

"Antonio you piece of shit I’m shaking please come home I can't fucking do this on my own"

Swallowing hard, Race sat up and dialed Spot’s number only for an area on the bed to vibrate. He frantically searched the bed as if finding Spot’s phone under the unmade covers will lead him to his shaken boyfriend. He hung up on himself and ran to the closet to grab a shirt, already thinking of places outside the apartment he might be.

Race’s quickly found out that all of those places were wrong.

On the floor of the closet, Spot sat curled up in the corner with his back against the wall. His hands were clamped over his ears, holding them so tight that they were bright red. His face was hidden in his knees and his shoulders were barely rising, as if he was holding his breath and only letting go for shorts bursts.

“Spot?” The name came out in a whisper and Race slowly dropped to his knees in front of him.

Another bang of thunder hit and Spot flinched, pressing himself closer to the wall.

“Spot?” Race said louder now, but he still didn't reply. Cautiously, he tapped his shoulder and Spot yelped.

“Pa, I’m sorry!” He scrambled, throwing his head up so fast it hit the back wall with a painful sounding thud. His arms were up as if to defend himself and his eyes were squeeze shut, his head to the side and his breathing growing heavy.

Race all but managed to whisper “Sean”, his heart breaking in his chest. He's seen Spot broken and vulnerable, but never like this. He gently grabbed one of Spot’s hands, lowering it slowly as he softly spoke. “Spot, it's me Racetrack-- Antonio. You're okay, it’s just me. You dad isn’t here. You're gonna be okay.”

Spot flinched against Race’s touch, but he slowly opened his eyes as Race rubbed calming circles in the center of his palm. He wiped his puffy eyes with his other hand while Race brushed aside a few flannels and climbed into the closet with him.

“Focus on me, Spot. Focus on your breathing. You're going to be fine, I promise. If there's anything I keep, it's my word, right?”

Spot sniffled and closed his eyes again, squeezing them less tight. He held onto Race’s wrist and winced at another hit of thunder. Race mentally cursed the sky.

“I need you to breathe with me, okay? Listen to my voice, remember where you are. Exhale.”  
Spot shakily did as he was told.

“Inhale to five, hold two, exhale seven. Ready?”

Spot nodded and the two followed the breathing technique. They sat in the closet breathing together for thirty-five minutes until Spot could breath normally, only having two short-lived setbacks from the thunder.

He opened his eyes again slowly, blinking a few times before they focused on Race. He inched closer and let go of his wrist to wrap his arms around Race’s torso and bury his head in the crook of his neck. He used Race to ground himself, repeating his senses in his head and then subconsciously whispering them to himself.

Touch- Smooth skin.

Smell- Race’s cologne and cinnamon. 

Taste- Dry?

Sight- A white wall.

Hear- Race’s breathing and thunder. It's just thunder.

Race held on tight as Spot repeated himself until his psyche was convinced that the banging and crackles of the sky wasn't his dad. Another jolt of lightning tracked thunder behind it and Spot twitched, but he let go of Race and sat back. He took one last drawn out breath. After a few minutes, he cleared his throat. “Would it be in bad taste to joke about us being in the closet?”

Race snorted, “Spot Conlon, you're unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably tired.” Spot crawled out of the closet and stood up, stretching and closing his eyes for only a second as the sky banged. “You can pick the movie tonight, but technically it's my turn so choose an action.”

Race stood and grabbed a sweater from one of the coat hangers. “Spot, we need to talk about why you didn't-” he turned around, but Spot was already gone with a pillow and blanket. He sighed and told himself ‘tomorrow’.

In the living room, Spot was curled up on the couch wearing one of Race’s sweatshirts he left lying around. Race poured a bowl of Spot’s favorite chips and two glasses of water, placing them on the table. He climbed under the blanket as the big spoon and quickly selected whichever movie he thought would have the most explosions to drown out the thunder while Spot slept.

The next day, Spot was gone before Race woke up. He left a note on the table simply stating “Be back later. Remember to pick up milk when you come home from the Optometrists. Love, Spot.”

Race sighed and checked his phone, 7:00 am. He groaned, knowing Spot had nowhere to be at this time and was just avoiding him because of last night. Race sent a text to all of his friends, asking them to send Spot home if he showed up, and stayed in the apartment all day. Around 3am, he fell asleep in an empty bed.

Two hours later, Race woke up to rustling in the kitchen. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and sluggishly dragged his feet towards the noise, flicking the lights on as Spot peaked his head out from behind the refrigerator door.

“Morning, princess.”

“Fuck you.” Race spat. He crossed the kitchen, shoved Spot aside, and slammed the refrigerator door. “You can’t ignore me all day then act like everything’s okay-”

“Everything is okay.”

“You had a panic attack, Sean!”

Spot froze and clenched his jaw. He subconsciously straightened his back and stood taller, as if Race hasn't learned how to see through his tough-guy facade.

Race balled up his fists, “Just because you act like it didn't happen, doesn't mean it didn’t. I’m sick of you always acting so goddamn tough. Fuck you and fuck thinking it’s you against the world!”

Spot stepped away from Race, looking a little shell-shocked.

Race ran a hand through his hair and spoke softer, stretching out his fingers at his side. “I just want you to talk to me, Spot. You can shut out your emotions to everyone else, but don’t try that with me. How can I protect you if I don’t know what you’re running from? You think I wouldn’t have hauled ass to the apartment if I knew?”

Spot took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, reminding himself that Race wasn't the enemy. He rubbed the inside of his palm with his thumb, “Look, Race, I don’t know what you’re expecting from me. This isn't something you can help with, it was triggered by trauma from a long time ago that you can’t undo, alright?”

“I just want to know why you didn't tell me until it’s too late.” Race took Spot’s hands in his own, “I know you grew up without anyone to help you, but you don’t have to face everything alone anymore. We’ve talked about this. I love you, jackass. Get that through your dumb, thick head. I want to help you.”

Spot looked down at their hands and mumbled, “Fine.” For a few moments he was quiet until pulling away and wrapping his arms around Race’s neck. He leaned his head against his chest.

“For you, I’ll try.”


End file.
